


Dissertation

by CharbroilLaFlamme



Category: We Happy Few (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dialogue Heavy, Disturbing Themes, Experiments, Fan Characters, For Science!, Gen, Happiness is mandatory, Human Experimentation, Medical Experimentation, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Original Character(s), References to Drugs, Science Experiments, Unethical Experimentation, gratuitous Latin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 01:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16007729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharbroilLaFlamme/pseuds/CharbroilLaFlamme
Summary: Thrussell speaks to a colleague.





	Dissertation

**Author's Note:**

> More about Doc Thrussell!

He thumbed the pages thoughtfully, writing and rewriting frustratedly.

Thrussell was sat scribbling feverishly on his notes—a speech he was revising for the umpteenth time—for about an hour.

The sound of distant groans of man, machine, and architecture was all just the background noise—the music that he had grown used to hearing after years of working there. He’d lost track.

The institute was the only place he could find refuge among like-minded peers. Each of them with their vices.

But not as bad as the constabulary—their reliance on combat and brutality as a means of release. Like rabid beasts—driven by urges that may be a result of the monotony of being in the force.

He placed his pen down and looked at the clock. Ticking away.

It would soon be time to replenish his Joy.

He affixed his bespectacled gaze on the fierce-looking syringe—with the two-inch long needle at the end. And the word “Joy” embossed on the cylindrical body in big pink letters.

The scratching, inching sensation of melancholy began to sink in again, the edges of his vision turning a dreary greyscale.

Reaching out, he closed his fist over the body of the medical tool and dragged it close to himself as the world proceeded to flicker.

He swabbed his arm with a cloth of isopropyl alcohol, then pressed the needle tip into his skin slowly, pushing the plunger down carefully after a few seconds of wincing.

He tensed his arm and moved it a little after finishing up to get the Joy flowing.

It never was pleasant to have to do it this way, but it was far better than having his peers do it for him.

Thrussell picked his pen up again, thinking deeply to himself.

He had already had some interesting observations to bring forth.

Unfortunately, information of this sort was to be kept within the walls of the institution. Just like the Plague assessments.

He referenced another, second sheet of lined paper—which was crammed full of notations and supplementary data. Thrussell shrugged.

_The subject reacted negatively—violently, even—to attempted removal of his mask. Perhaps an emotional attachment to it. Or something more physical._

_Bindings proved to be limitedly effective, but constables have been found to be intensely robust—especially out on the field, and when on the hunt._

_An angry constable has the strength of ten men—and then some._

_But after some time, he had stopped fighting. It appears that they can, in fact, expend their energy. Oh, what a delight._

_The fatigue itself may also possibly be a result of his extended Joy deprivation._

_We were able to start testing the new formula while he rested._

_Which gave mixed results depending on the method of introduction._

_Aerosol made him especially dizzy, disoriented, and generally confused—as was already noted._

_Injection proved much more effective—but risky. It was also not as fast-acting as expected._

_And simply forcing him to swallow the newest concoction in pill form resulted in some acute nausea, then some sudden and excessively violent disgorging. Definitely a chemical variation._

_It only served to make him even more upset. And then tired._

_The effects of overdosing have yet to be observed._

_He was escorted back to his cell soon after to recuperate—during which he went into withdrawal and had a case of cold sweats and blurry vision, as well as some quiet crying and muttering. The usual symptoms._

_Some constables just cannot tolerate the normal stuff, it seems._

_Perhaps a disagreeable chemical composition... I’m thinking there may be something extra in the Joy given to the constabulary—or is it a completely new animal altogether?_

_Perhaps a question or two to bring up to Doctor V—what of the fraction of constabulary with an intolerance for the normal formulas?_

_Doctor Charley Thrussell._

The door creaked open, a familiar voice, only a little gravelly, came from the vicinity. “Charley, is that you?”

“Yes, Gideon?”

“Assessing your data?” He said, placing his bag on the floor.

“I am, I am.” Thrussell said softly. “You’re coming in here late, Mallory.”

“I suppose I am,” he looked aside at the clock, then at the back of Thrussell’s head, counting his silver threads of hair, “about your newest tests on Merritt,” he began, “I’ve heard the lad was bitten in Lud’s Holm. By a carrier.”

“He was, it was a terrible mess, he hadn’t cleaned it so I’m expecting necrotic tissue any day now.”

“And that you’ve been using him as a scientific plaything—am I wrong?”

“Not necessarily,” Charley said offhandedly with a quirky grin. “I wouldn’t say _plaything_ , that gives an entirely different connotation.” He chuckled.

“Well,” Mallory shrugged. “Anything conclusive? What are your hypotheses?”

“Well, there’s really only one hypothesis I have, with a few others attached,”

“Right,” Mallory nodded and took a seat at his desk, adjacent to Thrussell’s. “What is it?”

“It’s rather built on hearsay,” Thrussell explained, pushing the paper delicately into its sleeve in his binder, “but there’s been curious rumours about the Constabulary, and their issues with the Joy.”

“So you’ve been running experiments on him with the formulas?”

“The experimental and the approved ones. I may have to get the data on a much bigger scale because—“

“ _It’s only one subject._ ” Mallory interjected before Thrussell could say it.

Then Thrussell finished. “—It’s only one subject.” He pointed at Mallory positively with the pen. “Very good.” He quipped with a vaguely condescending tone.

Mallory nodded, then took his round glasses off to wipe them, keeping his line of sight on Thrussell, squinting just so. “I shudder to wonder how you intend on performing this experiment on a grander scale—unless you plan to overflow the _entire_ headquarters with aerosol Joy.” He breathed on his lenses and wiped again. Then he paused. “Actually, that would be entirely possible, wouldn’t it?”

“Anyway, I’ve come up with some promising results, aerosol appication makes him dizzy—positively jovial—but dizzy.” He said, placing his arms on the desk. “Intravenous was a wee bit risky, but effective. And in pill form, well... he can’t stomach it.”

“Like you.” Mallory commented.

Thrussell hesitated.

“Yes,” said Thrussell, in his meekest tone, “like me.”

“Were you able to give yourself a jab?” He said, sniffing the air vaguely.

“This time, yes.” Thrussell said quietly, rubbing his arm where he still felt the entry point. He could imagine the rioting if he hadn’t. He didn’t want to be a Downer. But it seemed his body was rebelling.

For as long as Thrussell could remember, he couldn’t metabolise Joy, it just never seemed to agree with him.

He had tried, but nothing he did could stop him from running somewhere secluded to bring it back up. Then he lie in shame in the dark, hiding from his colleagues until he could find his emergency injector—fierce needle and all—tucked somewhere in one of his numerous coat pockets.

Not many knew about his intolerance for Joy. He wasn’t allergic or a Downer, nor was he a Wastrel with dreams of eldritch eyes—the paintings they made of the frightful hallucinations were absolutely spine-chilling.

And they weren’t always human eyes, either. Sometimes they were goats’ eyes, or cats’ eyes. Or simply just... eyes. All eyes, yet no eyes. Eyes on hands. On lips and tongues. In the stars. Eyes _on_ eyes. _In_ eyes.

He had heard many tales. Enough tales to understand. But he could only say “open up, the newest formula may fix what ails.”

But it never did.

Thrussell counted himself among the fortunate ones. Eyes did not perforate his reality. But sometimes he wondered.

“Well, Charley,” Mallory said, “hopefully your tests will come up conclusive.”

“If they do not... well... _nil desperandum_ , science is science. Sometimes that is its nature.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Mallory stoop down to pick something up from off the floor.

“What does it have to do with his mask, if I may intrude?” He said, thumbing a roughed-up sheet of paper, reading it line by line. The notes detailed the experiments more closely.

“That is _private_ ,” Thrussell leaned over and snatched the paper away, “I was wondering where that was.” He slid it into his binder. “There we are.” He would lose his head, were it not attached.

“Why?”

“Well,” Thrussell closed the binder again, “to put it simply, I was curious.”

“I know your curiosity,” said Mallory with a start, shaking his head, “you’re no less wicked with a syringe than the constabulary are with their truncheons.”

“Wicked is a matter of opinion, I would say _thorough_.” He corrected—incorrectly, in Mallory’s opinion.

“You can’t just _separate_ them from their masks, Charley,” Mallory groused, half to himself, “what would they do? No, those masks are like their faces... who are they without their smiles?”

“Who are we without ours?” Thrussell inquired, looking at Mallory pointedly.

“I’m stating that it’s psychological—they smile, so others trust them, and so they trust themselves. Joy isn’t all that keeps them in line—sometimes it takes conditioning. Sometimes it takes expectations and a rewards system.” He shrugged, then continued. “That is not to say they‘re unintelligent—far from it, they are incredibly astute and cognitively sound. But they are still citizens of Wellington Wells. It’s supposed to be our job to keep the smiles from falling away—to keep the Joy flowing.”

“I think you’re misconstruing my mission, Gideon,” Thrussell said matter-of-factly. “I don’t seek to undermine the efforts at all. But I do find it a concern that the Constabulary cannot metabolise certain Joy types. Suppose they had a negative reaction... half of the police force, milling about in the Garden District. Or on _holiday_. I thought that as my friend and colleague, you would understand by now. I do not make playthings of my patients, but is it so wrong to have a little fun...?” He wondered if the word fit.

“I would much prefer that the testing was done without risking the subject’s mental state, some of this is unorthodox... possibly inhumane.”

“I’ve never heard you complain about humaneness before, Gideon.” Said a perturbed Thrussell, glancing up from his occupied desk.

“I’m not complaining, not at all. But say the Constabulary catches wind of Merritt’s little predicament? What kind of picture would that paint for the public? Of not only us... but of Verloc?”

Thrussell affixed Mallory with a look. Amused and incredulous, he laughed sharply. “Verloc?” He sighed and rubbed his chin. _Yes, what of Verloc’s image?_

Questions came to him, many questions to be posed toward the _good doctor_ himself—the fucking _blowhard_ , as some of the others would say.

Doctor Verloc’s egotistic majesty wouldn’t take time out of his precious life to listen to them. Their concerns. Verloc fancied himself above that sort of thing.

It would be quite pointless to prattle on about when Doctor V would only grumble and mutter about hormone imbalances and new formulas—pheromone therapy and electroshock treatments on the general populace. Rather tasteless. He may have “inherited” the research for Joy, but it didn’t stop some of the institution from having some rather strong opinions toward him. Thrussell included.

However, they probably wouldn’t even _have_ jobs if not for the good doctor.

They could only deal with his pouting and violent tantrums as well as his talk of _that traitorous bitch_ , let him ride it out until he can’t be bothered. 

“The man can take a long walk off a short pier, if I may be so frank.” Thrussel finished. Then added aside, under his breath. “Don’t tell him I said that.” He put a finger to his perpetually upturned lips playfully. “I’d like to _keep_ my job.”

“Do you understand me, Thrussell?”

“Of course I do, Mallory. What sort of ignoramus do you take me for?” He said, appalled, and briefly insulted. “Come now.”

“Try not to get carried away, Thrussell.”

“Will do.” Thrussell said, sing song.

“Right.” Mallory breathed. “Might probably still happen. But don’t make a mess—of the lab or our image.”

 

* * *

 

_Today, the subject was observed on a low, steady aerosol dosage. While less extreme, he did have some dizziness but appeared to be functioning as normal and seemed rather lost and confused._

_he was given an alternative test injection later on after the aerosol had worn off. Hoping to possibly remove his mask whilst he was in a more... agreeable state._

_He did not react well, nor was he as agreeable as expected._

_Violence ensued, he broke free from his bindings and tried to strangle one of us, and bit another till he bled._

_Nobody was killed, thankfully. But the injured had to be evaluated for signs of plague—as is protocol._

_Phenocycline was administered as an extra precaution._

_Some of us were quite surprised when he attacked while under the effects of one of our more concentrated forms of Joy—perhaps he was hallucinating._

_I cannot say the subject got away unscathed. The formulas did not work, and it appears he has not yet awoken from sedation—but it may also have something to do with a rather terrible blow to the head._

_Do no harm, as they say, but sometimes harm has to be done to teach lessons._

_May need to take drastic measures to avoid another incident like this._

_Doctor Charley Thrussell._

**Author's Note:**

> Notes!:
> 
> — Thrussell speaks Latin on occasion, usually interjecting it into his everyday speech. He is also half-French. He is unable to take Joy pills, and has to inject it instead.
> 
> — Mallory speaks Old English recreationally.


End file.
